Unassailable
by Eldrazi Cat
Summary: Taking a castle is arduous business... far more so against Rhodoks!


**Disclaimer: Mount and Blade is the property of Taleworlds Entertainment and all I own is my work. Thank you.**

**Unassailable**

In the valley below his castle's thick stone walls, ranks of crimson soldiers flowed and marched around obstacles and prepared their siege weapons, their ladders, their towers. The count was unconcerned. He held absolute faith in the keep's engineering, and the stalwart men who would defend it to the last with spear and pike and bolt from that fat king's armies. On an open field, his garrison could not hope to stand against this force; but here, they were unassailable,

The first heavy, rounded stones struck the outermost walls to no effect, as the count expected. Still, the bombardment persisted, raining boulders upon his resisting battlements for hours. He chuckled to himself; all the hundreds or thousands of soldiers so far below, all hopelessly unable to bring his keep under their lord's control. Safely inside the protected halls and barracks of the fortress, his own army waited with plenty of food and crossbow bolts, even while a token group of his crossbowmen rained staccato death on the seething masses. The count had no worries; the castle was unassailable.

Lines of verdant-clad soldiers waited patiently atop the keep's walls as the siege towers crawled forward, rank and file levies swarming at their bases. Up the rock-laden paths they climbed, suffering a terrible cost in lives from his men's murderous, steel-tipped crossbow bolts. Yet worse for the invaders, a steady hail of bricks and stones descended upon them, raising clouds of dry, cool dirt when they impacted among those marching boots. But however many bodies laid unmoving on the ground, more leather boots crushed the mailed corpses beneath them. Still, the count had every faith in his wall of shields and spears and men; his castle was unassailable.

The first wave of warriors crashed against his massive board shields, spears and pikes poking viciously through the small gaps and stabbing wildly at exposed faces and legs. Tunics were torn and bloodied, shields on both sides were dented, but the levied polearms could not reach through the thick wall of wood and metal and flesh. Still, there were always more enemies marching in perfect, fearless rank and file up the ramps to replace those killed. The count did not find the endless waves of sword-waving opponents a serious concern; even as they crested the walls of his keep, they failed over and over again, for it was unassailable.

Thrusting up the center tower came the first true threat to the keep's defenders; clad in black coats of plates and protected by forged steel gauntlets and boots and helmets, and swinging their long blades and heavy, spiked wooden balls against the battered defenders. The line broke, men-at-arms rushing through the breach and capitalizing on the ensuing brawl to shatter the green-clothed fighters further. The long spears and glaives proved a liability in close quarters, but ever-present crossbow bolts rained from the multitude of men within and atop towers, and the courtyard as reinforcements spilled from the main hall, holding these servants of the fat king at bay. The walls were breached, to be certain, but still the enemy could not progress; still, the count's keep was unassailable.

A wavering line of less experienced spearmen formed rank in the courtyard, overwhelming storms of crossbow bolts hindering every enemy movement as they descended the stairs leading downward, protected by their metal-backed kite shields on their approach to the final battle. But every armed farmer, every crossbow-wielding marksman, and every armored, banner-bedecked sergeant would fight the king's horde to the death if it meant shielding their people from falling under his dominion once more. The lines had formed on both sides; crossbows savaged both forces… and then the signal was given for them to charge. A torrent of men smashed into and around the defending spears, threatening to rip into their flanks as the few remaining veterans desperately landed devastating blows with their sharpened, bloodstained glaives. Soon, the grassy terrain was invisible under blood and gore and weapons and corpses. Even from his window, the count found the stench almost unbearable. Still, even as his castle fell around him, he stood proud and unassailable.

The count could hear weapons beating at his door; he was almost out of time. Readying his monstrous cleaver, the intimidating nobleman waited patiently as his enemies forced an entry. Several well-armored infantry burst in, immediately spreading out in a wary formation, out of his weapon's reach. The first one to approach was punished for his eagerness with a precise stroke, separating the dog's helmeted head from his body with shocking ease. The next were smarter, raising their shields and approaching simultaneously; soon, the count was backed into a corner. With a desperate swing, one's shield was broken, but he took blows from the other two's swords. No matter, the count's fine mail was barely scratched. His leg lashed violently out, causing a soldier to collapse, groaning in pain even as two of those fearsome men at arms entered the increasingly crowded room. The cleaver's swing was blocked by a durable shield; swords stabbed at the count from every angle, searching for chinks in his armor to exploit. Inevitably, some were found, but he continued to do battle with his enemies even lying on the floor, his vision darkening. The count's last thoughts were of his men; how bravely they had fought to keep their castle, and the freedom it stood for, from the king's hands. But its loss was inconsequential, in the long run. The count knew only men like his could hold it well; eventually, they would retake his fortress, and once more render it unassailable.


End file.
